Of Fruit Baskets and Fruit Stands
by asteristar
Summary: It's strange what brings people together. In some, it's a car accident. In others, a love letter. And for others, it's a hideous fruit basket. BB Oneshot Part 2 of Of Booth and Brennan
1. Brennan

Of Fruit Baskets and Fruit Stands

A/N: This is the second story in a 5 part "series" that I've started to write. Each story is from Bones's POV, and is told in present tense. Keep in mind, none of these stories are connected, just written by the same person. And, because I forgot the disclaimer on the first one, here are two disclaimers. **I own nothing except the words and the order they're in.** _I own nothing except the words and the order they're in._

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It arrived today. She walked into her office and there it was, sitting on her desk, a large basket decked in ribbons and gauze and glitter and filled with fruit. Yes, fruit. It's a few days before Christmas, a holiday she hates, and she's been sent the ugliest fruit basket in the world, by a secret admirer, no less.

She's sitting at her desk now, just staring at the confection. It has her completely distracted from any other work she should be doing. It is garish and flamboyant and everything she's not. Surely some secret admirer who knows that she loves mandarin oranges would know that she's not the kind to enjoy a fruit basket dressed like a bad Paula Abdul outfit.

In her left hand, she holds a pen between her thumb and forefinger, and is tapping it on her upper lip, a something she does when concentrating. This basket is like a new case. Who sent it? Why would anybody send something like this?

"Temp?" a man asks quietly, and she glances up for a moment before returning to the task at hand. It's Booth, and his brows are furrowed as he watches her study the gift.

"Yes?" she answers absently.

"What the hell is that?" His voice is blunt and she can hear the distaste laced through his words. She smiles, happy that he shares her disgust.

"That, my friend, is a gift." She gets up, coming to stand next to him. She eyes the basket it like it's about to jump at her and shudders. He looks confused, and she clarifies. "Some psycho admirer sent me a fruit basket."

"Oh…" his voice trails off, and she can see his face go from mildly interested to something else entirely, something she's never seen on him before. And if she didn't know better, she'd say it was jealously. Now that she looks closer, it is. His eyes are flashing, filled with a dangerous spark that she knows will burst into flame somehow or other.

There's a slight pause, and she's a little worried that he's just going to keep standing there giving the fruit basket the death glare. She taps him on the shoulder and he jumps slightly, pulled out of his thoughts by her disruption. He raises an eyebrow at her and she sighs exasperatedly.

"Don't we have a case of some sort to be working on?" she asks quickly. He nods and leads her out of the room, throwing one last menacing glance at the fruit basket.

He says very little as they work the rest of the day. Anything he does say has a derisive tone to it, and she knows he's thinking about that basket. She laughs softly under her breath too many times to count.

The next day is one she will never forget. Booth races into her office, and at the lack of a fruit basket, smiles. He takes her hand and all but drags her to his large, black SUV. She takes too long buckling herself in for his liking and is on the receiving end of a mumbled rant on slowness. She's barely paying attention to where the car is going, but when they turn onto a street adjacent to a large and bustling outdoor market, she's utterly confused. Booth hasn't said anything since the beginning of the drive, so there's no explanation for this veritable cornucopia of color and sound.

He parks carefully, gets out of the car and comes around to open the door for her. She frowns slightly at his courtesy but doesn't say anything. She looks at him questioningly and, after carefully shutting the car door, Booth guides her along the crowded sidewalk deep into the market.

"Booth?" she asks. "Where are we going? This doesn't look like a crime scene."

He laughs. "That's because it's not, Bones." He doesn't say anything else, and she knows that's all she'll get out of him for now.

They keep walking, and finally, they reach what seems to be their destination. She laughs. They are standing in front of what seems to be the largest fruit stand in the world. She looks over at him and her smile is genuine, her head tilted slightly to one side.

He pulls his wallet out of his coat pocket and tosses it at her. She catches it awkwardly, and he grins. "Go wild, Bones," he tells her.

"What do you mean?"

"If some freak stalker guy can send you a fruit basket, then I can take you here. It's my version of a fruit basket, only better." He's pleased with himself, and she can't help but smile along with him. This latest gesture of his amuses her.

The fruit stand itself is more like six or seven stands bunched together in rows. They spend an hour or so wandering down the aisles between each stand, her hand still clutching Booth's wallet. She thinks that this is his Christmas present to her, and feels guilty. She hasn't gotten anything for him.

She buys a pomegranate. She's never really liked them, but judging from his offhand comment, they seem to be his favorite. Once they're back in the car, she remains silent. It's closer to evening than she realizes, and so is surprised when Booth begins to drive the familiar route to her apartment. The pomegranate in her hands feels heavier than normal, and she's nervous for some apparent reason – she just can't figure out what that reason is.

They reach her apartment, and before he can say anything, she twists in her seat to face him. With a slight smile on her face, she hands him the pomegranate. He stares confusedly at it, turning it over in his hands as he examines it.

"Merry Christmas, Seely," she says softly, hoping he won't notice the use of his first name. But he does, of course. While he's no anthropologist, he's also no fool.

"Merry Christmas, Temperance," he replies, his voice sounding oddly content. She wonders he's smiling at he the way that he is. It's scaring her slightly, and yet she's not afraid. "But what's this for?" he continues, motioning towards the pomegranate now resting on the dashboard.

"It's a Christmas present," she explains. "You brought me here, and so I bought you this as a sort of return present." She sounds self-conscious and they can both hear it, but he doesn't further embarrass her by laughing.

"Temp," he says kindly, "I don't want this. I only want one thing, and that's you."

Normally, she would laugh at his cliché words and make fun of him. But now, all she can do is stare stupidly at him, mouth hanging open. When she finally finds her voice, she tries desperately to salvage what is left of their previous relationship.

"Sure," she laughs, "and you also think I'm prettier than Angela." He doesn't have to say anything. It was meant as a joke, but she can tell from the serious look on her face that it's true.

She can't think of anything else to say, and is staring angrily at the piece of fruit sitting innocently on the dashboard when she feels his hand touch her cheek and turn her head so that she's facing him. There's a slight pause as she looks at him, and then he leans forward and kisses her.

It lasts for a few seconds, and when he pulls away, she's feeling loss and hope at the same time. He smiles at her reassuringly, and she can't feel loss anymore. She's full of hope and faith and suddenly she believes. In what, she's not quite sure, but she knows then that everything that ever goes wrong will turn out fine.

She presses her lips gently against his once before she slowly gets out of the car, taking the pomegranate with her. Booth is sitting in the car, watching her with a protective smile on his face. She waves goodbye and watches as the SUV pulls away.

With the pomegranate hugged close to her chest, she silently thanks whoever sent her that horrible fruit basket in the first place.

Christmas is wonderful again.

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	2. Booth

Of Fruit Baskets and Fruit Stands (Booth POV)

Disclaimer: I own nothing, "Bones" belongs to Fox.

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He strides up the stairs towards her office, a grin nearly splitting his face in half. He has just seen something that he absolutely _has _to tell her about. He can already see in his mind's eye the small smile that'll grace her lips, and the quietly bright sparkle that will light her eyes. He can imagine the way she'll try not to laugh, and exactly the way her face will look as the laughter bubbles up from inside her. His grin widens, if possible. He doesn't get to see her laugh often enough.

He stops in his tracks, remembering the first time he'd seen her laugh. It had been at something he'd said, and he can still feel the rush of pride that had coursed through his veins. He had loved that feeling, and he still loves it. He loves her eyes, her smile. God help him, but he loves her.

He tries dutifully to fill his role as the oblivious yet love-struck hero, complete with restless pacing and internal debate, but he fails miserably. So he loves her. Is that supposed to surprise him? To frighten him? Well, it doesn't. So instead of debating the pros and cons of being with her as he would had he been in a romance novel, he shrugs and continues on his path towards her office.

Usually, he can hear the soft strains of classical music coming from her office a few yards before he reaches it, but today all he hears is silence. He frowns slightly, and moves closer so that he can see through the glass walls of her office. She's staring at something that he can't see from his angle, a pen held delicately between her thumb and forefinger as she rests it against her upper lip. He wonders what could hold her concentration this deeply besides a skeleton of some kind, and since he thinks it would be going a little far even for her to have a skeleton in her office, he decides that it must not be very important, and that he can interrupt.

He pushes open the door to her office, and when she doesn't look up, he tilts his head to see what she's so interested in. Damn. The fruit basket. There goes his hilarious story. Now he has basically no reason to be up here – he'd taken care of his errand with Dr. Goodman when he'd gotten here.

Wait a minute. If the fruit basket is here, then somebody must have sent it here. Who would be sending a fruit basket to his Bones? Because he would not have sent her something that ugly. So it has to be from a fan of hers. Not a guy, though. Most of her readers are girls. He remembers reading that somewhere. That explains it. Bones must be a role model for some young girl out there. God, he hopes so. It had better not be from a guy.

"Tempe?" he asks, leaning casually on the doorjamb, trying to conceal the protective anxiety that he feels burning in the pit of his stomach. She glances up at him, and her concentration then returns to the fruit basket. For a second, he's jealous that the fruit basket is commandeering her attention. Then he feels like an idiot. Jealous of a fruit basket? That alone is enough to have him committed.

"Yes?" she answers absently.

"What the hell is that?" He is anything but tactful, and he feels regret start to build up, but then she smiles, and all his regret vanishes. Anything to make her smile.

"That, my friend, is a gift," she tells him, coming to join him in the doorway. He sends her a confused glance. Aren't gifts supposed to be nice things that people actually like? "Some psycho admirer sent me a fruit basket," she clarifies.

"Oh," he replies quietly, and then curses himself for his lack of eloquence. Couldn't he have come up with something better to say? But he's a little distracted by the flash of envy he feels. Why couldn't he have thought of that? It is near Christmas, and he should have gotten her something. He remembers standing in front of the flower stand earlier that morning, debating whether to buy her some. On one side had been the argument that it's the holiday season and that people usually buy stuff for the people they love. On the other side had been the fact that she hates Christmas and that buying her flowers might have resulted in getting his ass kicked.

He feels a tap on his shoulder, and jumps slightly, jerked out of his reverie by her disruption. He can't help but raise an eyebrow at her and she sighs.

"Don't we have a case of some sort to be working on?" she asks, and he nods. A case. Right. He's got Goodman's permission to drag her away from the lab, and they have to examine… something. The details are still a little fuzzy, since most of his attention is focused on thinking of something, anything to get her.

The rest of the day for him is a haze. When the day finally finishes and he sits on his couch that night, all he remembers is a blur of motion and noise, and her hidden smiles. He sits staring at the wall and resolves that tomorrow will be better.

Morning cannot come quickly enough for him, and he dresses in his newest suit, careful to look impeccable. He cannot afford to be scruffy today. He checks in at his office and, confident that his presence is not needed, heads for the Jeffersonian. When he enters her office, nearly running, he can tell she is surprised. They had all but closed the case yesterday, and she probably had not expected to see him for a few more days.

He grabs her hand and drags her down the flight of stairs, out into the parking lot, and all but shoves her into his SUV. She's sluggish today, and he begins a mumbled rant on slowness at just a loud enough volume for her to hear. She shoots him a glance and he grins apologetically. He then focuses on the road, taking the unusual route to a large outdoor market he visited early in his time in Washington. He parks carefully, exits the car, and opens the door for her. She says nothing, but he can see the slight frown creasing her brow. Her look then grows questioning, and his response is to rest his hand on her lower back and guide her through the crowds deep into the market.

"Booth," she asks him carefully, "where are we going? This doesn't look like a crime scene."

He can't help but laugh. "That's because it's not, Bones." She seems to be waiting for him to continue, but he says nothing more, and she sighs resignedly.

Finally, they reach their destination, and he stops. She laughs, and his heart leaps at the sound. She seems pleased with his choice – the largest fruit stand on the East Coast. She looks over at him, tilting her head slightly, and her smile is genuine. He pulls out his wallet and tosses it to her. She catches it awkwardly, and he grins at her endearing confusing. "Go wild, Bones," he tells her.

"What do you mean?" she asks, and he shrugs.

"If some freak stalker guy can send you a fruit basket, then I can take you here. It's my version of a fruit basket, only better." He waits for her reaction, and is rewarded with another, wider smile. He's amusing her, he can tell.

She takes her time wandering among the aisles of the fruit complex. It takes about an hour or so for her to choose something, but he doesn't mind her leisurely pace. It just gives him more time to watch her. One of her hands is still clutching his wallet, and he feels the urge to take her idle hand in one of his own, but he'll have to be a bit more certain of her regard for him before he does something like that.

She buys a pomegranate, and he's mildly surprised. He'd made an offhand comment about liking them, which was somewhat of an understatement, and she'd immediately picked one up, hiding her small smile. But he had caught a glimpse of it, and reveled in the fact that she might have picked that particular piece of fruit simply because he liked it.

They climb back into his car, and he begins the familiar route to her apartment. She looks nervous to him, and he likes to think that it's because of him, that she's nervous because she likes him, but it might be something else. Maybe she's worried about that psychopath who sent the fruit basket. He would be.

They reach her apartment, and he parks the car in front of the building door. He opens his mouth to say something, but she forestalls him by turning to face him and handing him the pomegranate, smiling nervously all the while. He can't help but feel bewildered, and examines the fruit, his confusion evident in his expression.

"Merry Christmas, Seeley," she says quietly, and he looks up at her sharply, not missing the use of his first name. Something in him that had seemed broken before suddenly mends.

"Merry Christmas, Temperance," he replies, his contentment showing in both his face and his voice. And while he knows she would rather just leave it at that, he presses forward. "But what's this for?" He gestures to the fruit sitting on the dashboard.

"It's a Christmas present. You brought me here, and so I bought you this as a sort of return present." She sounds a little embarrassed, and he feels the need to erase the uncertainty he sees in her.

"Tempe," he says kindly, a warm smile on his face. "I don't want this. I only want one thing, and that's you." His words are the truest words he has ever spoken. They are the only truth he wholly believes.

He examines her face for some sort of clue as to how she feels, but her mouth is simply hanging open, her eyes wide with astonishment. He knows how vulnerable she is when it comes to things like this, and so waits patiently. She can take all the time she needs.

"Sure," she laughs. "And you also think I'm prettier than Angela."

He doesn't respond, sure that his silence can convey the validness of her statement better than words can. She looks panicked for a second, and turns away, staring angrily at the innocent pomegranate. He reaches over and touches her cheek, turning her face so that she's looking at him. She looks so tragically beautiful to him, her blue eyes wide with something he can't quite name, but something he feels everyday. An emotion comprised of fear. Pain. Loss. Hurt. Hope. Truth. Faith. Love.

He leans forward and presses his lips to hers. Their kiss is what he would expect in something that involves to two of them. Equal in every way possible. He wants to continue it, but he knows that too much will push her away, and she'll run too fast for him to ever catch up. It's her turn, now. She's got to be the one to risk it. He smiles reassuringly at her. He'll wait as long as she needs.

Which is apparently not very long. She moves closer and lets her lips graze his lightly before she slowly gets out of the car, taking the piece of fruit with her. He smiles as she waves goodbye, and pulls away. The reflection in the rear view mirror is of her silhouetted figure hugging the pomegranate to her chest.

Fruit had definitely been a better choice than flowers.

**fin**


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